


Sense Memory

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [42]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning to the serenity of farm life is reminding Lagertha of other feelings long forgotten</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Set during early 3x02

The farmland she gazed at in the valley below was beautiful to see: green, lush, and with a touch of morning mist rising from the dark, moist earth. The sounds of the animals and birds—some familiar, some not—waking and going about their day were pleasant and calming. Yet, what Lagertha kept coming back to was just how good it all _smelled_. Oh, there was the usual stink of animals, refuse, and unwashed humans (the Saxons seemed to eschew bathing, she had noticed), but there were also other, better smells here, too. On the warm, moist air were bourne the scents of the rich soil, flowers in bloom, and summer fruits and vegetables ripening in field and orchard. There also always seemed to be the appetizing scent of bread nearly everywhere she went, from villa to market and even to the camp they had made on this journey. Wheat, barley and other grains grew so easily here that loaf upon fluffy loaf turned out from bakers' stones and ovens every day, in far greater quantity than she had ever seen at home. 

She missed her homeland, that was certain, and hoped Kalf was handling things in Hedeby well in her stead, but part of her wished she could stay here indefinitely with the settlers and bring forth new life from this fertile place in a way her body had not been able to since her beloved, and mourned, daughter was born some 18 years ago. 

Another, more familiar scent drifted toward her on a breeze, followed by the man who carried it. Athelstan had always, to her, smelled of candle smoke, cedar, and salt. He also favored a hand salve made with lanolin and rosemary, which added to the pleasing aroma.

"Lagertha," he nodded at her as he approached. "I trust you are well this morning."

"I am." The Wessex king, Ecbert, had tried to keep her up late with conversation, but though he spoke some of her language and she—unknown to him—was catching on to his, eventually a lack of their translator, who had retired early, got in the way. She wasn't sure whether she felt sad about that or grateful. "I slept well, and rose with the birds. There are some lovely songs in the forests here."

"Indeed. I have always loved morning birdsong. We mostly had sea- and shorebirds at Lindisfarne—at my monastery—but we had others, too: larks, wrens, and the like. Also a few others whose names I never knew, but which I have never seen around Kattegat. It is nice to hear them again."

"Well, I look forward to hearing them more." In truth, she also looked forward to having the peace and quiet necessary to hear them. She had few complaints about her position of power, but one was that she rarely had time to simply stop and enjoy the natural world outside the town and its noisy, attention-begging citizens. It had been so long since she’d gotten her hands dirty in a field of onions or turnips that she began to wonder whether she still knew how.

"How did things go with King Ecbert after I left last night? It seemed you two were getting on well." His voice carried a teasing laugh.

A warm flush came to her cheeks and she looked away. "We were, I think. It is odd for me to be courted thus—and in a language I don't yet understand."

"What do you think of him?"

She shrugged. Ragnar's words about mistrusting Ecbert were still heavy in her mind, yet she could also see in him a certain earnest charm, and wondered if Ragnar's wariness was just a touch of jealousy, given the king's interest in Athelstan—less obvious than his interest in her, and certainly unspoken, but still readily apparent. "I am undecided, yet. Something about him feels slightly off, but I also have no real reason to complain. He has been generous—and certainly flattering."

"He does seem to have taken a fancy to you." Athelstan grinned. "Not that that would be hard to believe."

She looked up and returned his smile. "Thank you." There was much about this endeavor that pleased her, but having her old friend and confidante along for it was high on the list. Ecbert pestered Athelstan almost as much as Ragnar did when they were together, but unlike his eager reciprocation with his long-established lover, the young man seemed far less inclined to encourage it from the king. This made certain that he was usually free to talk to, and she looked forward to taking more advantage of that.

That her mind occasionally came back to idle thoughts of doing more than talking certainly encouraged the feeling. She inhaled deeply, taking in more of his fresh, familiar scent, and threaded an arm through his.

"It is very good to see you again, Athelstan," she said quietly.

"And you," he returned, patting the hand that rested on his arm.

 

A few days back in field and stable again had reminded her of muscles that she rarely used otherwise, even when she bore her sword and shield. But more keenly than the ache of work-use, her body increasingly ached to be touched again—touched by eager, lustful hands. She had had a few suitors in Hedeby, and she often wondered whether Kalf was ever going to be one of them, but most seemed more interested in her power than her personhood. And then there were those like Einar who saw her primarily as the occupant of a woman's body; that was even less interesting.

This king, however, seemed to appreciate her for all she was. She had implied, though not told him directly, that she was no longer capable of bearing him heirs, but he seemed disinterested in that. His own line was now well established anyway, what with the sunny-faced grandson his daughter-in-law still nursed. Ecbert showed respect for her as a warrior and asked relevant questions about her earldom, yet also flattered her as a woman, a combination she found refreshing. There was, of course, no question that she would ever really remain here with him, but more and more she began to think that perhaps a month or two sharing his bed might not be a bad idea—to address certain needs, if nothing else. Much as she didn’t miss Ragnar’s childishness and the bickering that had become the end of their marriage, she did miss other things about being with a man who did not see sex as a means to possess her. The one night they had shared with his new wife last autumn was enough to remind her of what she had lost in that respect.

Being around Athelstan again had also reminded her of the other thing she had lost when she left her first husband. She guessed that the young man probably wasn't ready to be with her—or perhaps any woman—and in any case was quite seriously stuck on Ragnar. Yet she still couldn't help her physical responses to his presence. Finding a way to scratch that itch—with a man who himself certainly wasn't unattractive, if rather older than she usually found interesting—might well be useful.

So it was with pleasure that she accepted the king’s invitation to return to his villa, and the jewelled necklace with which he had gifted her.

“It suits you,” Athelstan said as they made their way back down the corridor to the chamber the king had provided for her. Ecbert had implied that he wished her to return to his own chambers—a wish she shared—but as yet, she was still keeping him at arm’s length. If nothing else, she wanted to be sure they could communicate better before they spent much more time alone. Tonight, therefore, she would be sleeping alone.

Her fingers brushed over the intricate metalwork and polished stones. “You think? I do like it.”

“I do admit, though: I have grown so used to seeing you in armor or in the field that it is unusual to see you so formally dressed again.”

She had to laugh. “It feels a little unusual, too. I am often dressed this way when I hold court in Hedeby, but somehow that seems years ago, now.”

“Well, I think you look lovely no matter whether your adornment is jewels, dirt, or the blood of an enemy.” He nudged her gently.

She laughed, and nudged back. “And you, whether you are dressed as a Northman or a Christian priest,” she teased, and drew a finger over the piece of gold that dangled from his own neck.

To her delight, he flushed and squirmed a little. “That is kind of you to say,” he finally managed, his tone a shade tight and formal.

She paused, stopping in front of the door to her chamber, and took his hand. “Oh, Athelstan,” she said quietly. She reached up with her other hand and caressed his cheek. For all that he had experienced of life in the past several years, there was still so much innocence in his face. Seeing him slightly flustered like this reminded her that he was still less than ten years older than her son. Not quite young enough to be her own child, and certainly well into manhood, but what advantage he had in years seemed erased by his naivete. She knew young men Bjorn’s age back in Hedeby whom she would never have hesitated to bed had they shown interest. Kalf himself was someone she had met as a gangly youth. Somehow, she still felt wary of crossing such boundaries with Athelstan.

Yet, she reminded herself, of course it was a boundary Ragnar had crossed, and still did. Clearly he, at least, was confident in Athelstan’s maturity. Wishing to respect their privacy, she had never asked her former husband for the details of their trysts, yet she still knew some of it, and now that knowledge—abetted by her florid imagination—filled her mind. Memories of Ragnar’s touch and of her once-intense lust for the younger man combined with the strong wine she had had with their meal. The ache grew too much to bear, and she leaned up. The first kiss she dropped on his cheek, not wanting to upset him, but then he turned to meet her.

In an instant, she was a girl again, remembering her first curious fumblings with Ogan, the herb seller’s boy who lived down the road from her parents’ farm. A surge ran through her chest, and she heard herself make a small noise of pleasure. Athelstan, for his part, had drawn a sharp, ragged breath, and moved against her, backing her up to the rough, stone wall of the corridor, his tongue slipping into her mouth, and his growing ardor discernible against her hip. She reached behind her, feeling around for the handle to her bedchamber door. 

The rattle of a sword in a scabbard and the hard thump of boots on the floor jerked her out of the feeling. Her body tensed, and she pulled away, looking around. The guard hadn’t seen them—passing their corridor on the way down another at the end—but the interruption was enough to cool her head.

“We shouldn’t,” she murmured.

Athelstan frowned in confusion. “Why not?”

“Well, for one I think Ragnar would never forgive us if we did this without him.” She grinned.

Athelstan chuckled. “That’s true.”

“He could be managed, I think. But there is another whose ire we would probably incur—one we can less afford to upset.” 

“Ecbert,” he said flatly. 

She nodded. “I do not think he is used to the things he wants being taken by someone else.”

“And he wants you.”

“Yes. Though,” she said carefully. “I am not the only one he wants.”

His jaw tightened. “Oh, that’s surely not true.” His expression betrayed the lie.

“It is, Athelstan. You know it. I know it. Ragnar certainly knows it.” She laughed wryly. “And this alliance—this treaty—we have is simply too important for us to risk angering the king.”

“You are right,” he said, stepping back further and shifting uncomfortably. 

“Perhaps,” she said, caressing his cheek again, “when we all return home, things will be different. We could . . . negotiate something with Ragnar, I imagine. For now, however, I think we should tread carefully.”

“We should, yes. And I must be honest and say that I think perhaps the wine has muddled my wits somewhat. If we ever do pick up where we have left off, I would like my head to be clear.” 

“Agreed,” she said. “In the meantime, however: I do want to be certain that things will not be strange between us.” 

He shook his head. “Of course not.” 

“Good. Because your friendship matters more to me than anything else, and now that we finally have time together again, I do not wish any of it to be tainted by awkwardness.”

“It will not be, I promise.” He smiled sadly, then leaned down for another, more-chaste kiss. “Good night, Lagertha. I hope your dreams are pleasant.”

She flashed him a meaningful grin. “Of that, I am completely sure.”


End file.
